


We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Apocalypse

by VioletArroyo



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Love/Hate, Meta, Possibly Pre-Slash, Slash Goggles, fandom cliches, fandom tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletArroyo/pseuds/VioletArroyo
Summary: "What if we're on the telly?"
Relationships: Angel & Spike (BtVS), Angel/Spike (BtVS)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Apocalypse

"What if we're on the telly?"

Angel darts a glare over the top of his tumbler at the annoying bleached blond sitting next to him. He'd been somewhat enjoying the smell almost as much as the slight burn he barely feels. Aged whiskey or good brandy are among the few things other than blood which he can smell well enough to taste.

"I think we'd know if there was a camera crew following us around, Spike," he snarks in the worn out voice he uses whenever the younger vampire is being an idiot. So, basically, the same voice he almost always uses around Spike.

Spike frowns and quirks up his left brow at Angel like he always does when the old man seems to be playing purposefully daft. Spike's beginning to think his scarred eyebrow is now permanently fixed a full inch higher on his head than the other one.

"Not what I meant, big guy."

"Stop calling me that! Vampires have supernaturally high metabolisms. I'm not fat. I bulked up the muscle."

"Sensitive there are we, buttercup?"

"Just...shut up, Spike."

"That refrain's getting tired, poof."

"Again, not a poof. Idiot. And I _am_ tired. You should be tired. You should be back at your damn apartment. Why are you here?"

Spike puts his glass down on the coffee table, drops his hands between his spread legs, and leans back on the couch until he's staring somewhere between the wall and the ceiling. It's the same couch he and Angel sat on less than a ten months ago, trading verbal punches, since the whole 'Spike's an incorporeal ghost thing' was still a thing and they couldn't trade actual punches. He lets out a long sigh as he slacks his head back onto the soft leather cushion, because he knows Angel will perfectly understand what Spike's about to, in a weary voice, _not_ say.

"You have better bourbon."

Angel's frown deepens, knowing Spike means he doesn't want to be alone and has limited choice for company. The reluctant CEO of Evil Incorporated spends the next ten seconds staring at Spike, trying to decide whether or not to throw him through the door again. That always seems to make the blond menace go away. Even if he's still talking as he leaves, at least he's leaving. Instead, Angel lets out his own long sigh, spreads his own legs to let his hands fall there, and waits another ten seconds before barely mumbling an unconvincing, "Idiot." Angel, though his conscious mind is fighting his subconscious mind over why he's somewhat okay with Spike staying, doesn't really want to be alone, either. 

They are both tired. Wesley is in his office drunk off his mind on both expensive scotch and lack of sleep while maniacally searching through ancient documents trying to find a way to bring Fred back. Lorne is in his office drinking maniacally in spite of not actually being able to get drunk while pretending Fred is still here and trying not to confront Angel (though they ALL know he wants to) about what the hell is really going on. Gunn is in a holding dimension having his heart ripped out every day, because he thinks it's what he deserves, and neither Spike nor Angel disagree with Charlie-boy all that much. Lindsey is in a cell in the basement with Eve, gloating over his own importance. Hamilton is stalking around the building making his presence well known. Who knows where the hell Ilyria might be. Neither Spike nor Angel can muster the energy to care.

They're the only ones who were physically, let alone emotionally, available to go out and kill a swarm of acid spitting demons who were encroaching on the territory of another swarm of acid spitting demons which Wolfram & Hart happen to represent. Neither swarm was particularly nice. Angel is still mourning Cordelia, then Fred, and now possibly Gunn all while trying to come to terms with what he's about to ask those who remain to help him accomplish. Spike is still trapped in a moral limbo between guilt over Buffy, what having a soul really means for him, and the choice he made to stay in LA with Angel purely out of (he can admit this much to himself) a bleedingly exaggerated sense of loyalty and the relentless need to prove himself worthy.

"Still not what I meant."

Angel rolls his head to look daggers at Spike for breaking the semi-comfortable silence they'd lapsed into.

"Huh?"

"Being on the telly. Didn't mean the wankers were following us around; I meant this," and here he motions with his hands to encompass the room, the building, the city out the window, and finally to gesture between the two of them, "it's a story. It's not real. We're not real. It's someone's idea of entertainment."

Angel scrunches his eyes trying, desperately, not to see this as profound. Spike says profound things, true enough, but Angel usually considers this dumb luck based on Spike's infuriating instincts about people's personalities and emotions. Spike doesn't really think profound things; he feels them. He's got amazing intuition, so he rarely has to think his way around anything. It really annoys the shit out of Angel, but at least it fits with his understanding of Spike's character. So, here, the idiot seems to be having profound, philosophical thoughts, completely outside the realm of emotional intuition. The older vampire really, really isn't comfortable with the idea Spike might have unknown depths. Maybe he got those depths in the hundred years they were apart. Or maybe all that time spent in Sunnydale with a chip in his head forced him to think. Or maybe it came with the soul. In which case, Spike really has changed (even though he was the one who achingly pointed out that demons aren't supposed to change) and Angel is just too proud to admit it. It would mean they're not just on a level playing field in a fight, but when it comes to the soul, too. And Angel really, really, **really** doesn't like that idea.

"That's got to be one of the stupidest things you've ever said."

"Most stupid."

"Again, huh?"

"No such word as stupidest, Luddite."

"How do you even know what a Luddite...wait...nevermind. Just...be quiet or go away."

Spike rolls his head even further back, now looking completely at the ceiling. Figures big ole peach blossom wouldn't be able to admit Spike knows things. Spike knows he's not a big thinker but he does know things. Wanker. Soon, only ever able to be still one night in his entire afterlife, he starts tapping his left hand fingers on his knee in a vaguely arrhythmic manner. Angel puts up with about ten seconds of this before he elbows Spike in the arm. Spike sits up straight, then, and glares back at Angel, having lost an admittedly jagged line of thought. Suddenly, he smirks, eyes glowing with the kind of amusement Angel just knows means the door will need replaced again.

"You're right."

Angel's jaw drops. Spike continues to grin, crossing his arms and straightening his shoulders, daring Angel to say anything contrary. Angel doesn't know if he can speak right now, anyway. After about another five seconds staring in disbelief, Angel then straightens up himself and purposefully holds his head up so he's still taller than Spike even while they're sitting. 

"What are you up to?"

"What do you mean? I just said you're right."

"Bu...y-," Spike snorts, cutting Angel off, but then quickly straightens his face, knowing he's pretty much given the game away. 

Angel triumphantly points an accusatory finger at the longcoat-clad moron.

"You said you were physically incapable of saying I'm right. You're trying to play some sort of trick on me! What the hell, Spike? Hasn't the day been long enough?"

"Night. It's still night yet, Angel; we're vampires, you dullard. And I'm not lying. Not saying I'm not toying about, because taking the piss with you is a right joy, mate, but you _are_ right."

Angel is genuinely confused now and lets his pointing arm relax back on the couch seat, as he slumps forward slightly, putting them back on eye level.

"Okay, fine. I'll let you have this one. _Just_ this one, Spike What exactly are you saying I'm right about?"

"It's a rank idea, this being a story on the telly. You're a plain bore, even if you do have the wounded puppy, tortured dark soul bit down pat. I'm not tortured enough to make a good hero or even antihero. Ain't no writer or director gonna think either of us is good Hollywood material."

"Oh. Uhm, yeah, okay. I am right this isn't fiction. Besides, if we were fictional characters, we wouldn't talk about being fictional. It would break the fourth wall or something."

"Nah. It's called 'going meta.' We're not actually talking to the audience, are we? We're ourselves talking about 'what if' even if it is just fiction where we're talking. It's like Batman or Deadpool making a joke about being in a comic book without saying it's an actual comic book. Though, Deadpool does break the fourth wall a lot."

"Who the hell is Deadpool? That doesn't sound like a heroic name."

"Antihero. And Batman isn't some major wanker? You really are devoid of modern culture and humor, mate."

"Yeah, well, I can speak seventeen languages, not counting all the demon ones, so, really, who's the more knowledgeable one here?"

"Whatever. Poof."

"Dumbass."

Angel relaxes against the sofa back, head tilted up again. Spike mimics the pose. Silence once more ensues, neither of them much interested in their whiskey tumblers anymore. This time, Angel breaks it.

"Buffy."

Spike nearly jumps in place, both the name and Angel speaking it throwing the punk rocker into an unexpected wicket. He holds himself down though, and doesn't break his skyward gaze. He says, with cautious anger tempering his voice, "What about her, mate? And mind you, tread bloody careful on the subject."

"Buffy is a hero. Her friends are her sidekicks. Giles is like...like...well, we'll use Batman again; he's Alfred. He's her advisor, but also acts like her father, right down to being an asshole about me. Well, about you, too, I guess. Which makes us...we're like the boyfriends. Well, I'm the ex-boyfriend who couldn't stay and you're like the...the crappy mistake relationsh-"

Spike jumps to his feet, hands curling into fists, and shouts down at Angel, "Oi! Got my soul for her, I did! Died saving the whole bloody world, you fat arse! Ain't gonna let you start in again and say-"

Angel stands as well, putting his arms up and out, palms facing Spike in a placating gesture, for once not wanting to fight him.

"Calm down, damn it! She chose you at the end, didn't she? I could have worn that amulet, but she wanted you to be the hero! I'm talking about before the soul, okay? I may never accept you and her, in fact I'd like to think that's more fiction than anything else we're talking about, but I'm not saying it wasn't important or that you getting your soul wasn't a good thing, you moron! It's all the crap that happened while you were soulless. That part was bad and you know it."

Spike relaxes his hands again, instead crossing his arms over his chest, tucking those same hands under his armpits. He nods once, sharply, at Angel, both angry and conciliatory in the same gesture. Angel almost grimaces in jealousy at the ease Spike has in conveying multiple messages in one tiny bit of body language. Angelus could be alluring and charming in his movements while still looking deadly, but the soul has made Angel uncomfortable in his own skin. It translates into uncomfortable postures if he's not fighting. Or acting. Angel can still move well when he's pretending to be evil. He's never been sure if that's a good thing or not. He crosses his own arms and stares into the middle distance, once again contemplating the dark nature of his existence. 

Once Spike thinks Angel has had enough time to recognize the error in calling Spike's relationship with Buffy a mistake, he mutters, grumpily, "So what, then?"

"'So what, then,' what?"

"Good lord. The 'so what then' about Buffy being a hero, you lumox."

"Oh. Yeah. So, even if this is some piece of fiction on a stage, we don't matter. It's her story. We're like...I think we're like metaphors for bad stuff in life people go through. And now we're not bad things anymore, so she didn't need us anymore, because she, you know, she conquered those particular 'demons,' so to speak. So, you know, we're not with her, we're here now, so nobody is watching us, if, you know, it's all a TV show. We were just temporary characters and now our, what do you call it...damn it...oh, oh, our story arc is done."

"Nope. I mean, yeah, Sunnydale might've been her stage, yeah, and that made it her big hurrah with us on the sidelines, but LA is all you. You're the Big Final Apocalypse Hero bloke in this town and Wolfram & Hart are the Big Bad. It's a spinoff of a boring character because some guy thought you made a more interesting story than you do. It's why you're always knee deep in trouble and have interesting sidekicks. And I was the one who was actually done, you know. I was done when Sunnydale had its big heroic finale. Played my part, I did."

"Really? So what does that make you now that you're not actually done? Some big, drawn out, wretchedly complicated and anticlimactic character denouement? Comic relief? Oh, wait, I know, you're Captain Obvious, Captain Peroxide."

"Hah-bloody-hah. I'm way more than that, I'll have you know. I'm the mid-run replacement. I point out all you pansies and your foibles. I get to be the not-quite-baddie who says what none of the rest of you white hats will. I'm the fan favorite who rescues your ratings, since I'm pretty sure the audience got tired of watching you be so tragically maudlin and broody. I'm interesting. Complex, yet simple. I actually enjoy being a vampire. I'm not all caught up in your intellectual bollocks. And American birds like an English accent. Never did understand that one. Comes in handy, though. Oh, yeah, I'm eye candy, too."

Angel pouts catching a tangent and now unable to let it go: "I'm damn good looking! And I have an accent, too."

"Bloody well do not. Lost it in New York. Said so yourself."

"Hey! I might sound American to the untrained ear, but I've still got a little of my Galloway lilt, damm it!"

Spike rolls his eyes and mutters, "Bollocks."

"You can say bullshit, you know. It is said all around Great Britain. I swear sometimes you just sprinkle in your little colloquialisms so we all can't forget you're English. Stupid limies and their stupid need to be better than everybody else."

"Watch it, potato gob."

"Red rump."

"Bog trotter."

"Sheep fucker."

"That'll be the Scots, mate."

"Thought it was the Welsh. Or Kiwis."

"Yeah. Them."

"Are we being racist?"

"More bigoted and ethnocentric than anything. Probably not good for the souls, is it?"

"Probably not."

"Old habits, yeah?"

"Yeah. Where were we, anyway?"

"You were being Mr. Big Swingy again with your side characters theory."

"Hypothetical. And I never...Jesus...look, you were the one saying you rescue the ratings. I never claimed to be that important. In fact, I think I just said that if this is a television show, or a book or something like that, we're not the characters that matter: Buffy is."

"Not disagreeing about that. She's the One. But, she ain't anymore, is she? There's thousands of 'em now, ain't there? She's living it up in Rome with Nibblet, letting the rest of 'em sort it out. Not really doing the whole 'one Slayer to save them all' routine right now, is she? But, _we're_ doing the whole Big Apocalypse thing, right? I told you I can feel it coming. The whole 'end of the world' deal makes for more interesting stories than partying across the pond, even if you are a big, dull, high muckity-muck. See, that's me, rescuing your ratings."

"It's really sad how deluded you are about yourself, Spike. You should seek therapy. But...Nibblet?"

"Jesus. Dawn, you thick-headed Irie."

"Whatever, Spike. You call her Nibblet?"

"Well, she was bitty when I met her. Seemed to fit. Platelet, Nibblet, Little Bit."

That's...well, I guess it's sweet, if you don't think about the fact you were calling her a light snack."

"Well, just at first. Meant it affectionate later. And now. She's like a little sis I never had."

Angel grunted, impressed in spite of himself. Needing to regain the high ground, he blurted out, "She was smaller when I met her."

"Technically, you've never actually met her. And I only met her at fourteen not eleven like they made it seem."

"But those memories are as real as she is. And you can't say she's not real."

"Never would. Unless we're all on the telly, in which case none of us are real, which makes this whole conversation a moot point because bleeding fictional characters can't have real memories since all their memories are made up by a writer and interpreted by an actor, which means they're really only memories for the writer and crew and audience, but only memories of actors playing parts, memories of a program, not of actual people, which doesn't count for you and me in the first place, because we're not really people, are we, just demons walking around like people. Bloody hell. I'm going to pretend I didn't just say any of that. Can't even wrap my brain around it."

"You can't wrap your brain around anything bigger than your fist, Spike."

"Yeah, well, you can't wrap your heart around anything bigger than your schnoz."

"Shut up, Spike."

"Screw you, Angel."

Spike finally uncrosses his arms and swings them down to tuck his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, rocking his lower body forward slightly on his toes, then back down on his heels, looking all the world like the cat who got the cream, quirking his eyebrow and grinning slightly at Angel. Given the choice between punching the grin off his face or shoving his smartass on the floor, Angel chooses instead to throw his hands in the air in frustration, stalk over to his desk, and lean on the edge with his own arms crossed. Out of nowhere, the brunet vampire grins so wide Spike thinks, if only for a split second, that he's slipped back in time with Angelus.

"Wot?"

"You said I was right, that this isn't a show, but then I convinced you it could all be a television show, which also makes me right."

"I never said that."

"You said I was right."

"Something, which, without a recording, I will deny until I dust."

"You said it, you annoying idiot."

"You're hearing things, mate."

"Improv lines from the director's chair, maybe."

"Something from a fanfiction is more likely. Any director or writer doing my character's lines for a TV show would know me well enough to know I'd never say you were right about anything."

"But you did!"

"Alright fine, we'll just pretend I said it. But, then you went and proved me wrong about something I didn't want to be right about. So, Captain Forehead, we're both right and we're both wrong. There. Back on equal footing. Though, not really, because I'm still a way more interesting character than you. Doubt they could even find an actor good enough to play me."

"Nah, he'd just have to swagger around like he's the shit so the rest of us can amuse the audience by cutting him down to size. Equal footing, my ass. Me, I don't broadcast my every thought and feeling for the world to see, so the actor playing me would have to be really good at subtlety. Yours would just have to be good at acting like a pompous idiot."

"Bloody Hell. I really don't like you."

"Mutual. Why are you still here?"

"Ain't the finale, is it?"

"Huh? I meant: why are you still in this room. What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm not some johnny-come-lately character who waltzes in, does his bit to sell the storyline, and then waltzes back off into the moonrise. I was there until the end in Sunnydale, I'm gonna be here until the end in LA, whether it's just a season finale or series finale. Told you a couple times now; I can feel it coming. Not leaving until it's done."

Angel's face quickly darkens, his whole demeanor closing off, and he looks down at his lap so Spike can't meet his eyes.

"Angel?"

"Try not to tell Lorne about this theory, will you? Or Ilyria for that matter. And maybe not Wesley, either. You know what? Don't tell anybody about this talk, because...well you know. It's just stupid: worse than that whole caveman thing, okay, and I can't believe I let you drag me into it."

"Angel, mate, what are y-"

"No."

"Hey, I jus-"

"Seriously, Spike, just...just no, okay? I'm tired. Go home."

Spike, hands now down at his sides, duster pushed behind him, watches Angel walk with slumped shoulders to his private elevator. Spike doesn't take his eyes off him until the doors completely shut on Angel's back. He puts his tongue between his teeth and sucks in a breath just to steady himself, before turning to the table to pick up and toss down his throat first Angel's bourbon, then his own.

As he walks out the office door and into the elevator to the ground floor, knowing full well _they_ can hear him, he mutters under his breath, "Bloody bad acting, that. Seen better on _Passions_. Or maybe it's bad scripting."

Walking down the LA streets away from the high-rent offices to his low-rent housing, he stops to look up at the smog-shrouded sky, smelling the soon to arrive sunrise. 

"Give us a rewrite, yeah? And if we can't get that, could you at least retcon the bloody sequels, mate?"

Silence. 

Spike drops his head back down, walking faster to stay ahead of the approaching daylight, murmuring without much conviction, "Yeah. Bollixed up idea for a good show, anyway. Maybe a weird comic book or something."

**Author's Note:**

> All opinions on Angel not making a good lead character and Spike being the better character are completely Spike's and not mine. Any opinions on Spike being an annoying idiot and Angel being a better hero are completely Angel's and not mine. I was just innocently trying to have some fun with fandom tropes and arguments, I swear.


End file.
